


All along

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Jealous!John, Johnlock Roulette, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it becomes clear that a newly-single DI Dimmock is interested in Sherlock, John finds himself at a crossroads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All along

**Author's Note:**

> For [agnesanutter](http://agnesanutter.tumblr.com/), who really needed some jealous!John :D Hope you like it!

“Dr. Watson?”

John turned at the sound of his name. The young forensics officer, Healey, approached him from where she had been finishing with the body of the middle-aged shopkeeper. She snapped her gloves off as she reached the spot where he was waiting for Sherlock.

“Did you say you had an idea about what the murder weapon might be?”

She was probably about thirty-five, with short blonde hair and green eyes. A very pleasant and not at all unattractive woman he and Sherlock had encountered on cases three or four times in recent months.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed her before, but it had been months since Jeanette and though John had been on a few dates, there hadn’t been anyone permanent since. In truth, his heart simply hadn’t been in it.

The whole Adler incident had left him feeling somewhat protective of Sherlock; even though the detective had been prickly and secretive, John had felt a responsibility to stick close to home.

But perhaps it was a good time to get back in the game.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop while you and Mr. Holmes were having a look, but I thought, perhaps, it might save me time if you had some thoughts…”

“No, no, no. Not at all.” He flashed her a smile he knew brought out the little sort-of dimples in his cheeks. Natasha (mechanic in Afghanistan) had always commented on that. “I didn’t mean to exclude you. It’s just — ” John gestured to where Sherlock stood near Dimmock’s car, clearly explaining something to the DI. “ — He prefers to have as few people as possible close by when he’s working.”

“Oh, no. I understand. I was, uhm…”

“Warned?”

“Well, yes.”

“Completely understandable,” he chuckled. “He’s not the easiest man to — ”

John’s head snapped around at the sound of deep, resonant laughter. _Sherlock’s_ laughter.

He watched the scene for a moment, forgetting about the pretty officer beside him as he observed his friend and colleague smiling down at the young DI. It was not a fake smile. Rather it was the satisfied, very-nearly-smug smile he did when he’d managed to get his own way or convince someone of something. Or when he’d finally decided someone was not, in fact, a moron.

Sherlock had been changing when the call came in earlier that evening; his curly hair was still a bit damp. John followed one gloved hand as it brushed a stray ringlet from the man’s forehead. John swallowed, unable to look away as Sherlock licked and then rubbed his lips together — Dimmock was staring at Sherlock's mouth.

“Dr. Watson?”

“Hmm?” John turned back to Officer Healey. “Yes. Right. Sorry. The, ah, the murder weapon.” John tried to focus, but found himself sneaking glances back to where the detective and the DI were still chatting. _Chatting_. Sherlock didn’t do chatting. “The pattern of bruising, was…was reminiscent of…well, it reminded me of…”

“Maybe you could just ask DI Dimmock to let me know?” Healey suggested. “If you want to join them, I don’t mind.”

John pursed his lips, wrenching his attention away from the unlikely tableau of his flatmate having a polite conversation with a man he’d once described as “pasty and utterly forgettable, and yet possessed of the most gratingly uncultured voice” Sherlock claimed he’d ever heard. John felt a bit sheepish as he faced Healey once more.

“I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful.”

Healey’s expression was sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it. I had one of those once.”

“Sorry — one what?”

“A really hot boyfriend,” Healey grinned. “Even though you’re sure you can trust them, you worry that you can’t trust anyone else.” She placed a hand on John’s arm. “You don’t have to worry about the DI, though. He and his partner split a few months ago, but I know him well enough to say that he’d never try it on with someone already in a relationship.”

“Hot…trust…what — relationship? Dimmock?” John stumbled over his thoughts and his words, his cheeks flushing. “But Sherlock — we — we’re not…”

“Oh, god. I-I’m so sorry.” Healey looked stricken. “That was completely out of line and none of my business. I’ve obviously made a huge mistake and I — this is horribly embarrassing.” She bit her lip. “It isn’t my place to say anything about the DI, either. But honestly, I thought everyone knew. He’s never made a secret…you know what. Scratch that.” Healey waved a hand in front of her, now blushing slightly, too. “Please forget I said anything at all.”

Healey beat a hasty retreat, leaving John agape.

He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to his shoes briefly, not entirely sure which part of the exchange was upsetting him.

True, he had missed an opportunity to chat up a very attractive female police officer, but it was clear that would have been a bust anyway.

Her assumption didn’t really bother him, though. He was used to being mistaken for Sherlock’s lover. It happened often enough and even Irene Adler, the only human being he’d ever seen Sherlock display any kind of…well, even she’d referred to them as a couple.

John had decided recently to stop denying it. It was pointless, for one — people were going to believe whatever they wanted anyway. And, two, he felt guilty every time he did so, if only because it made it sound as though being gay were something he would be ashamed of.

Which he wouldn’t be.

If it was true.

Which it wasn’t.

And, of course, he didn’t give a toss about anyone else being gay. In fact, B.I (Before Irene) John had been operating under the assumption that if Sherlock _were_ a sexual being he would be gay. A.I. (After Irene), it became apparent that bisexual would be more accurate…if Sherlock were interested in sex at all.

And of this John had seen no further evidence.

He caught the sound of Dimmock’s voice, trilling something high and shrill (it sounded like an impression, but John couldn’t say who it was meant to be) before dissolving into helpless giggles. Sherlock, too, laughed once more.

John couldn’t help but look. The DI was gesturing as he told a story. Sherlock was leaning in, resting one shoulder against Dimmock’s panda and listening intently with a tolerant expression. The DI’s hand swung wildly as he spoke, the backs of his knuckles brushing over the front of Sherlock’s coat.

John’s intake of breath was a little sharper than it should have been. People didn’t touch Sherlock like that. He despised it.

John waited for the scathing comment and Dimmock’s sullen departure. He watched in shock as the hand lingered, unrebuffed, turning and flattening out over the detective’s lapels.

Sherlock looked up then. He caught John’s eye, and something caused him to cock his head to one side. Dimmock turned to follow the detective’s gaze, his expression cooling slightly as he caught sight of John. His hand slid slowly down the front of Sherlock’s chest before dropping back to his side.

John’s jaw tightened and his fist clenched. He strode toward the pair, trying to maintain a neutral expression.

“Just about done?” he asked pleasantly.

“Just about,” Dimmock replied, his voice brittle. “If you like, I could have one of the uniforms give you a lift. Then Sherlock and I could finish this at the Yard.”

John froze. _Sherlock_? Dimmock was on first-name terms now?

He turned slightly then, expecting to see some kind of response to this on his flatmate’s face. Instead, it became apparent that the man hadn’t been listening to the conversation at all. He was studying John’s face, his brows knit together in concentration.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” John responded to Dimmock’s offer. He squared his shoulders as he faced the young DI. “Sherlock and I will share a cab. When you’re finished.”

“That may not be for a while,” Dimmock insisted.

“I’ll wait.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“Oh, it’s no bother.”

“The paperwork can be pretty boring.”

“I’m quite used to that.”

“And we may have to go to the morgue.”

“Been there many times. I don’t mind.”

Dimmock’s nostrils flared. “There really won’t be anything for you to do.”

“I’m sure Greg must have told you that Sherlock and I work cases _together_.”

“Oh, he did. He also told me that’s _all_ you do together.”

John’s nose twitched, his fuse lit. He started to press in when a firm hand dropped down onto his shoulder. He looked up to find Sherlock smiling pleasantly — and more artificially — at Dimmock.

“Perhaps you could text me with any additional questions?” he offered smoothly. “I did promise Dr. Watson a late supper.”

Dimmock started to say something, but clearly thought better of it. John was resisting Sherlock’s efforts to turn him away, still angry enough to want to finish the escalating argument.

“Thank you for your insight,” Sherlock said. “Very helpful.”

Dimmock nodded glumly as Sherlock steered John out to the main street. They had hailed a cab and were seated within before John began.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock looked genuinely offended.

“Flirting with Dimmock like that? What the hell were you playing at?’

“Flirting?”

“Oh for — you never see it, do you?” John seethed. “Fuck’s sake, Sherlock. He’s a gay man who has just broken up with his partner. He was _flirting_ with you. And _you_ were flirting back.”

Sherlock stared at him. “I was being polite. You’ve made it very clear how you feel about me attempting to adhere to the social niceties. I would have thought you’d be pleased.”

“That was more than politeness and you bloody well know it.”

“How so?”

“Sherlock, he — you were laughing with him, smiling at whatever he was telling you. And he was _touching_ you!”

Sherlock shrugged. “He was relating some not entirely ridiculous theories about the victim’s marriage, along with a very humorous anecdote about Anderson and a very large rat. Did you know he refuses to work with Anderson now? I believe I may have judged our young DI too harshly — clearly he is not completely devoid of sense, unlike so many of his colleagues.” He sniffed. “The touch was incidental.”

“Sherlock, he was chatting you up and you were letting him.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. “In any case, what difference does it make?”

“Can you imagine how embarrassed he would have been when he realized his mistake? He’s one of the few DIs who will work with you as it is!” John ranted. He paused, unprepared for the leaden weight that seemed to have formed in his guts. “Or were you actually planning to go out with him?”

Sherlock offered no response, but simply looked at him. John stared back, waiting for some kind of reply. When none came, he began to fidget under the scrutiny, finally turning to the view of Piccadilly Circus at night.

“You just…” John started finally, swallowing hard. “You should be more careful with people. I know you don’t care about this sort of thing, but maybe you should learn to recognize the signs.”

“Is that why you’re so angry?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock refuted. “You’ve been angry since you saw him touch me.”

“No, that — that has nothing to…” John sighed. “I’m not angry.”

“You are. What intrigues me is that you can’t decide whether you’re angry because you thought I _wasn’t_ interested in Dimmock or because you thought I _was_.”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“You can’t have it both ways, John.” Sherlock turned to stare out the opposite window. “You can’t be annoyed when people assume we are a couple and then be miffed because someone took the time to confirm we aren’t.”

John went cold.

“This is not about what people think of us — ”

“No, this is about your jealousy.”

“I am NOT jealous!”

“Of course you are. The look on your face, your physiological responses, insinuating yourself into the conversation just to remind me you’re still there — the same as with Irene.”

John was dumbstruck.

“Hamish? Baby names?” Sherlock shook his head. “If counting my texts hadn’t already confirmed it that certainly would have. Honestly, though, you were transparent from the moment you asked her to put something on.”

“I…I didn’t — that was not…”

“It was.”

The cab had slowed without John realizing it. He glanced around to see that they had ended up at Bart’s. Sherlock slid from the cab and then turned back to face John again, resting on the open door.

“I am not the one failing to recognize the ‘signs,’ John.” The deep voice was soft, almost gentle. “I think the time has come for you to decide what it is that you want.”

The door closed and Sherlock strode toward the old hospital.

John remembered very little about the cab ride to 221B. He couldn’t even remember telling the driver where to take him. But when he found himself in front of their door, he wasn’t able to bring himself to go in.

He needed air and he needed to think — it wasn’t every day a man was told he was in love with his best friend.

He walked until the sun began to rise, pausing only once near the end to pick up a coffee.

As he mounted the steps to the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes, he found himself hoping the man was still out. Though he doubted a few more hours would make any difference to the situation. Sherlock was right: it was time for him to make a decision.

The door was open; he could hear Sherlock tapping at his laptop as he crossed the landing. He entered the room slowly and with more trepidation than he’d felt the very first time he’d seen the place. Then, Sherlock had been the unknown quantity. Now, the one thing John wasn’t certain of was himself.

“Pleasant walk?’

The question was posed without eye contact.

“Yes. Fine.”

“I made coffee, but I see you’ve already had yours.”

John glanced at the paper cup still clutched in his fist. He took two more steps into the flat, setting the now-cold beverage down on the small table near his chair. He slipped his jacket off and dropped it over the chair arm, patting it twice.

“Are we going to discuss this or pretend it never happened?” Sherlock asked. John looked up and met the man’s eyes. They were very green in the early morning light.

“Discuss.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stood and closed the distance between them.

John stared up at him, nervously licking his lips.

“You do that a lot, you know,” the detective commented. “Perhaps you should consider the use of lip balm.”

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He’d been thinking about it all night. He hadn’t been able to clear the image from his mind. It was as though a door long closed — a door John hadn’t even been aware of — had been thrown open, and everything behind it had begun to tumble through. And there was nothing John could do to close it again.

He cupped the taller man’s jaw in his palm and drew him down.

The kiss was a little awkward. John had never kissed a man before and it was throwing him off; he was thinking too much. Finally he settled for simply pressing his own mouth to Sherlock’s and letting them both breathe through the contact.

It was warm and remarkably tender. Sherlock’s full mouth was — jesus, it was moving. John started as Sherlock angled himself to deepen the kiss, parting his lips ever-so-slightly in…invitation.

A heat John hadn’t been expecting blazed through him. He traced the man’s plump bottom lip with his tongue before flicking tentatively inside. Sherlock sighed softly, his body softening against John’s. Their arms tangled and then somehow settled into place, wrapped around each other. Sherlock pressed John’s pelvis tight against him as he met John’s tongue with his own.

John was thoroughly aroused and breathless by the time they pulled apart. He dropped his brow to rest on Sherlock’s clavicle. “I’m not gay,” he panted.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock drew him closer and dropped his chin to the top of John’s head.

“No.” He stroked over the small of Sherlock’s back, enjoying the feel of the lean, long muscle under his fingertips. “You’re married to your work.”

“I admit, in the beginning I was not interested in anything other than a collegial relationship. However, it has become clear to me that it really doesn’t matter what either of us wants.” Sherlock lifted his chin and John looked up. Sherlock moved to draw his thumb over the line of John’s cheek. “The fact is we _are_ _in_ a romantic relationship. I think we have been all along.”

John dipped his chin — just once, as usual, to indicate agreement and acceptance. “So…”

“So?” Sherlock’s brow arched. He had to know how much John loved that look.

John beamed up at him, feeling no shame at all in employing his sort-of dimples.  “You still owe me supper.”

Sherlock’s grin was a little crooked. “Tonight. Tapas at Angelo’s.”

“Splendid.”

“Good.”

Sherlock looked uncertain as John shifted and released him from their embrace. John stretched up to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“I promised Sarah I’d fill in at the surgery today.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Sherlock let him go and retreated to the desk as John made his way to take a shower.

John hesitated in the kitchen and turned back. “Sherlock?”

The man glanced up from his computer. “Hmmm?”

“Tell Angelo to make sure there’s a candle for the table.”


End file.
